


Scratch

by Darling (toxicwaste)



Series: Scratch [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Mild Language, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6612475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxicwaste/pseuds/Darling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some kind of tattooed Akaashi and daycare volunteer Bokuto meet through Kuroo AU</p><p>Kuroo and Bokuto are total bros</p><p>Bokuto is clueless and has ADHD and Kuroo is the worst friend ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Good 'ol Bokuaka because I'm a sucker for these two. Bonus wingman Kuroo.
> 
> I think this will be a part of a series in the same AU. I really like this concept and I hope to do more with it!

Bokuto wasn’t a fan of needles and yet, here he was, hands held tight behind his head, fingers woven in second hand nervousness as Kuroo stood at the counter of a tattoo and piercing parlor. Located on a shoddy corner in downtown Tokyo, the parlor was lit up with a multitude of neon lights in numerous colors, signs flashing, blinking, as if this were a place of wonder and discovery rather than some sort of needle hell.

Bokuto hadn’t come willingly and he was _positive_ that his skin was going to go untouched by a man in leather with a _thing_ for torturing the youth and innocent.

Kuroo waved his hand in front of Bokuto’s face, lips quirking upwards into that of a scheming smile.

“Wanna get one?” his friend asked, thumb jerking over his shoulder to the person at the counter sat, fingering through a stack of manila folders.

“Yeah, _no_ – not a chance, bro.” Bokuto took a step back, then another. The idea of simply running away and heading straight out the door and never returning was a reoccurring theme, playing over in his head like some sort of fantasy. It would have been easy, too. A few more steps back, a push of a door, and he’d be gone. Though the prospect of waiting outside in the cold was negative and, if he really had left, that’s where he’d be seeing as how his way here was through Kuroo.

He may be having a first world problem at this point.

“’S not that bad,” Kuroo says, waving his hand and laughing, though the crinkle of skin around his eyes told Bokuto that he may have been lying in hopes of convincing him to get a hole punched in skin or to sit through hours of some kind of torture while a man laughed manically over him with a tattoo gun in hand.

Bokuto was sweating.

Kuroo turned, speaking to a boy behind the counter with thick glasses. Bokuto wasn’t listening, more focused on how to escape this _barbarian-torture chamber-fun-land_ when he was grabbed by the arm. The high pitched noise that bubbled up this throat and through clenched teeth would be denied, though the look that Kuroo threw him told Bokuto that he’d never hear the end of it later. Dragged by what Bokuto would like to call his best friend – though at this point Kuroo was just as bad as those who liked to inflict pain on the unsuspecting who wondered into this place- to the side of the parlor where he stiffly sat in a black leather seat clenching the arm rests as though it would take flight at any moment.

Kuroo sat on the sofa beside him, leaned over and resting his forearms against his knees as he eyed the folder Bokuto assumed came from the glasses boy at the front of the parlor on a coffee table before the two of them. Bokuto wasn’t sure what was in there – maybe some kind of form where one was signing their life away and had to pay in blood, or maybe it was a portfolio of all the different torture devices that they used on their poor clients, or maybe –

“Bro, it’s not too late to leave!” Bokuto shouts, eyeballing the folder. Kuroo throws him a look, amusement playing across through dark eyes. “You don’t _have_ to do this-“ Bokuto rants, his fingers digging into leather, nostrils filled with the smell of rubbing alcohol and ink.

Kuroo is laughing, picking up the folder that held the dangers of the shop.

“Dude,” Kuroo says, waving the folder in his direction. “You gotta calm down. ‘S _fine_ , you’re not even the one getting anything done.”

Bokuto doesn’t want to take the folder nor does he want to admit that his friend has a point. They were here for Kuroo, not him, yet Bokuto feels as though Kuroo’s life and, more importantly, his own, were in his hands and were, specifically, in that folder.

Kuroo’s brows lift up, his lips curl, and he gestures the folder in Bokuto’s direction. He’s sweating bullets, hands sticking to the tacky leather under his palms. Bokuto hesitantly reaches out, then snatches the folder as if Kuroo had been waiting to pull back in attempt to trick him. Thick fingers poke at the edge of the folder, his head ducking to see a nice stack of laminated paper between the two covers. Easily, as if he had been disarming a bomb rather than opening a cover, Bokuto manages to open the folder without having his body and soul sucked into another dimension.

He relaxes almost instantly, fingers trailing over the plastic covered pages in awe. Inside, there was no blood contract nor were there ads for torture devices but instead artwork. Complex, multi patterned drawings with detail that Bokuto hadn’t a clue could exist. Lines were clean, tapered in areas and thick in others. Dotting patterns, line work, and expert precision that Bokuto couldn’t understand – it was beautiful. This artist was simply that – an artist, at the most basic of terms but to Bokuto, each of these pieces were nothing short of masterpieces. While he may know next to nothing about art, someone as simple as he could see that this person was a beautiful designer on pencil and paper.

“Excuse me.” Bokuto almost didn’t look up, almost didn’t notice Kuroo stand. But – _ah_ – is he glad he did. Kuroo stood, bent in greeting. Bokuto paid him no mind, however, jaw slack at the sight of the _beauty_ that stood before him. “I had prior business to attend to.”

“It’s good,” Kuroo replied, easily talking as though this divine _creature_ hadn’t been there. I’m Kuroo Tetsurō.” Bokuto vaguely sees a hand wave in his direction. “This idiot is my friend, Bokuto Kōtarō.” Bokuto glances up, then, face flushing in embarrassment as he, too, stands and bows in greeting.

“Nice to meet you!” he shouts, clutching the folder between his hands as though it were some sacred symbol. He doesn’t see Kuroo’s lazy grin, nor does he see the stranger barely pass him a glance.

“Akaashi Keiji.” The stranger says, and Bokuto thinks the world might end if this beautiful soul speaks another word to mere mortals such as them. “Let’s get started, Kuroo-san.”

Kuroo and _Akaashi_ – Bokuto repeats it in his head until he’s memorized it, his voice – talk then, but Bokuto doesn’t listen. He is shyly, though obviously, staring at Akaashi, jiggling his leg, tapping quietly on the leather under his fingertips. Bokuto was nothing short of memorized by this person. Eyes the color of night, hair as dark like obsidian, skin so white Bokuto thought it blue under the parlor lights. Bokuto almost had to step outside to _breathe_. He felt hot again, nervous. His leg bounced faster and Bokuto wondered if he forgot to take his medication today.

Almost sent into a panic of whether or not pills are in his system, Kuroo and the beauty that is Akaashi both stand. Bokuto straightens to attention, looks up and back and forth between the two men before Kuroo catches his eye and then walks away, that same scheming smile tugging his lips that causes Bokuto to question his taste in friends. He follows, stiffly, to the back of the parlor where it stinks like rubbing alcohol.

Akaashi is silent, doing something Bokuto can’t see on a marble counter. Kuroo is sitting atop what looks like a leather hospital bed. His friend winks and Bokuto thinks his head is going to explode.

“What are we – _oh my god_.” Kuroo pulls his jacket off, then his shirt, and it finally clicks that this is real and Kuroo is about to get massacred by needles. His hands find his hair and he tugs, skin prickling at the thought of his friend undergoing some sort of _needle surgery_. Bokuto collapses into a seat, the nearest one, a stool beside Kuroo, hands holding his head. “This is it – you die here, I die here, we _all die here tonight_ –“

“Bokuto-san, was it?” Said male looks up, head tilting back behind him too see an upside Akaashi. “Please move to the other seat.” Akaashi gestures somewhere Bokuto can’t see because he’s scrambling up and out of the stool, confused and panicked, not hearing Kuroo’s howls of laughter as his back hits another shot of leather in seat on the other side of his friend. Kuroo lays his arm out on the rest spot, craning his neck to laugh in Bokuto’s face, though all he can see is Akaashi sitting in the same stool with a blue pen in hand, studying Kuroo’s forearm.

“Wait a minute; _you’re_ the one who’s going to kill him?” Bokuto asks, shocked and hurt as though it he who was being betrayed. Kuroo howls again, head thrown back against the seat.

“Bro, you’re, like, late to the party. Who did you think was going to do it?” Bokuto stares at Kuroo’s profile, then Akaashi, who is doodling on his friends arm.

“Er,” Bokuto stumbles, face flushing again. Then, as though a light had been lit, “So, you’re the artist? The one in that folder?” Bokuto points to the manila folder with the pretty art on the inside resting atop the counter. Akaashi merely looks at him, face flat, and Bokuto takes that as a sign. “Ah - _oh_.” He laughs, awkward and hot, hand threading through the slicked up tuffs of hair.

He’s quiet after that, though his constant tapping continues, leg bouncing silently against the mat thrown down under Akaashi’s work space. While Kuroo chats to Akaashi about whatever is happening against his skin, Bokuto takes the time to study the area, or, more specifically, Akaashi’s area. There are multiple frames of art littering the wall, ones that Bokuto recognizes as Akaashi’s art style. He leans forward in his seat, unaware of the conversation taking place next to him, studying the designs pinned against the wall. All beautiful, each unique, yet all seemingly _Akaashi_.

Bokuto moves his gaze, studying the pictures of people with tattoos that Akaashi must have given them. All in black ink, the lack of color is unsurprising to Bokuto, yet it doesn’t take away the beauty in tattoos. Each picture is framed in black, some glaring in the lights overhead, and Bokuto hums in approval.

If Kuroo wanted to die in such a way, he’s glad he’s chosen Akaashi for the job.

The sound of rapid vibration brings Bokuto out of his appreciative trance and back to where Kuroo is sitting. Akaashi is bent over in his seat, then turning to the marble countertop. Bokuto watches, stomach twisting like he’s the one who’s going under the needle. Akaashi pops open a little tray lid before squirting ink inside the pod. The buzzing returns and Bokuto almost jumps into the air, ready to run for his life, when Akaashi returns to face Kuroo, a rag in one hand and some sort of device that Bokuto can only assume is made for pain in the other.

His nose twitches as Kuroo’s arm is wiped down with a foul smelling disinfectant. Akaashi asks if he’s ready, and Bokuto says “no” the same time as Kuroo says “yes”.

Akaashi ignores him and it begins.

Kuroo makes no noise, no sign that it hurts but Bokuto must think he’s lying because his skin is starting to turn red underneath the smearing of ink on his arm. He’s standing now, hunched over the back of Kuroo’s chair like some sort of bird on a perch, watching in some sort of sick fascination as Akaashi works his friends arm.

“Hey, hey, hey – does it hurt?” he whispers, as though speaking loudly might break Akaashi’s concentration. “It’s gotta hurt, right? I mean, I think I can hear it when it goes in your skin.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Kuroo replies in a regular volume. “You should get one.” Bokuto almost squawks.

“ _No_ – no. I’d rather live to see another day.” Kuroo laughs a little, his gaze not leaving Akaashi’s hands gliding across his skin. It’s silent for a moment, the sound of the needle buzzing the only noise the parlor has to offer before Akaashi speaks.

“You don’t like them?” Bokuto is quiet, not realizing he was being spoken to, before jumping up and rubbing the back of his head.

“No -  er, yes?” he stumbles. “I don’t like needles, or thought of having them repeatedly being stabbed into my skin. Ah – I like _yours_ ,” he rushes out in one breath, grinning lopsidedly, though Akaashi never looks up.

“I can assure you that I have never stabbed anybody, though the thought has crossed my mind.” Kuroo laughs and Bokuto pales, taking a step back in fear. He does, however, catch the faintest quirk of Akaashi’s lips, and that brings him, slowly, back to hovering over Kuroo to keep watching.

An hour later, Kuroo is stretching his arm flat against a black surface where Akaashi is poised above him, camera in hand, snapping a photo of the finished product. Bokuto is amazed, near memorized, with the intricate detail in the work that Kuroo now sports on his forearm. Such _thin_ lines, such small dots littering his skin like faint freckles, but all coming together in a pattern that makes up something of a cat of sorts. Bokuto isn’t sure – maybe a lion. In any case, he’s stunned bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement for his friend who – miraculously isn’t dead or bleeding.

“Wow, Akaashi! You’re so _cool_ – I’ve never seen something like that before!” Bokuto is spewing praises, though he isn’t sure if Akaashi is listening as he’s still photographing Kuroo’s arm. “Hey, hey, hey, you’re like a professional!”

“Weren’t you the one who was convinced he was going to kill me?” Kuroo says, lips curling upwards in a sleazy grin. Bokuto frowns a bit, brows furrowing.

“Ah – was that me?” He laughs easily. “Well, you know, you’re still alive so I guess it’s okay! But just this time, you know?” He glances over at Akaashi, who is looking through the pictures, telling Kuroo he’s free to move before he gets wrapped.

It’s too soon before they’re leaving, Bokuto and Kuroo standing near the entryway, ready to leave. Kuroo is thanking Akaashi and Bokuto is significantly less stressed and more relaxed than when he entered the shop. He’s drumming his fingers against his thigh, watching his friend converse with the pretty tattoo artist, wondering if he’ll ever see Akaashi again.

He hopes so, bowing as he leaves, thanking Akaashi for taking care of his friend. It’s unlikely, however, that they’ll cross paths again.

 

* * *

 

It’s a month later and Bokuto is sitting in the floor of the daycare, two children around the age of five in his arms, laughing as bounces them against his chest. Their mother is late picking the two of them up, but Bokuto doesn’t mind. He’s staying behind to watch them, being the only caretaker left on duty, and therefore, the one to close down when all the children have gone. It’s fun, being able to put his attention into two children rather than fifteen at a time. He’s blowing raspberries between them, grinning as the children squeal and burst into fits of giggles.

It’s rather cute and he doesn’t mind the tugging on his hair when they laugh until their sides hurt. He’s standing up now, carrying them both against his chest as headlights chase the shadows of the daycare away for a moment. A mother comes in then, profusely apologizing before taking her children, who are tuckered out after a long while of playing with “brother Bokou”. He waves her off, though, still grinning, as two chubby hands wave goodbye.

Bokuto locks up then, picking up stray toys and turning out the rest of the lights before leaving. A quick check of his cell phone tells him he’s missed his bus stop and he’ll have to wait another thirty minutes before another one drives past his stop. It’s cold, though, and he doesn’t feel like waiting.

Hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders coming up to shield his neck and chin from the biting winter night and its cool temperatures. It’s a while before he reaches the stop, but not long enough for him to want to sit and wait so he keeps going, straight home.

That is, until he takes a closer look at who is sitting under the covering, phone in hand, LED screen lighting up somebody who he thought he wouldn’t see again.

“Akaashi?” Bokuto stops, turning and cocking his head, grinning when beautiful dark eyes glance his way.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says with a nod, sliding his phone into a pocket. Bokuto can’t stop grinning; jumping a little in excitement when it’s confirmed that it is Akaashi waiting at the stop.

“I didn’t know you took this stop! I take it all the time, well, not tonight, but hey, hey, hey! I’ve never seen you here before!” He’s rambling, he knows it, but he’s too happy to contain himself. He’s an active talker, hands animated as he speaks. “What’re you doing out here? It’s pretty late!”

Akaashi seems patient enough, however, answering Bokuto with a calmness that the other isn’t accustomed to.

“My bike needed repairs. This was the next fastest way home.” Bokuto hums, arms crossing against his chest.

“I’d give you a ride if I had one!” He grins, then it falters. “It’s a while before the bus comes, you know? Aren’t you cold or lonely out here?” Akaashi replies in the negative, but Bokuto is sitting next to him already, palms pressed flat against the grate of the seat.

Akaashi is quiet, hands folded in his lap. Bokuto chats him up as talking is easy, and Akaashi doesn’t say much, giving him range to freely speak. However,

“Ah – you should see Kuroo’s arm now! It’s healed up pretty well and it’s beautiful. But you knew that, you did it,” Bokuto stumbles out, rubbing the back of his head. “But hey! It, uh, it looks really good.”

It’s too dark for Bokuto to see Akaashi smile.

“Thank you, Bokuto-san.” Bokuto feels his cheeks get hot in the coolness of the air and hopes that Akaashi can’t see it or his ridiculous smile. “You mentioned before that you were scared of needles?” Bokuto could have ran a marathon at that point, happiness bubbling in him like a fizzy drink as Akaashi continues the conversation.

“Yeah! They’re just –“ He makes some sort of hand gesture in hopes that Akaashi can understand what he means. “They freak me out, you know? I couldn’t be a doctor or, or like you. I don’t wanna _stab_ someone or _be_ stabbed.” Akaashi chuckles and Bokuto can feel his heart take flight out of his chest.

“There is no stabbing involved.” Bokuto might believe it if Akaashi is the one to tell him. “Just slight pressure, like pulling a sticker out of your finger.”

“But, like, a hundred more times.” Akaashi lifts one shoulder. “Nope, not gonna happen!” Bokuto crosses his arms against his chest and shakes his head wildly as if to get the thought away.

It’s quiet for a few moments, save for a car that drives past and whizzes away into the night.

“What about a piercing?” Bokuto glances over at Akaashi, brow lifting up in thought. He hums, loudly, before shaking his head.

“No! I don’t wanna bleed, either.” The night is quiet and Bokuto is staring across the street at a lamppost before asking, “Do you think it would look good on me? A piercing?”

Akaashi is quiet for a long time and Bokuto thinks maybe he didn’t say it loud enough before Akaashi stands up, dusts off the back of his pants and bottom of his coat, before turning over his shoulder with the ghost of a smile.

“I think either would suit you nicely, Bokuto-san.” The bus pulls up then, though Bokuto hasn’t yet lifted his jaw off the ground. His cheeks are on fire and he’s confused. Was that flirting? Did _Akaashi_ who is so beautiful and talented, who he hasn’t seen in a month – who _remembered_ him – just flirt? Bokuto isn’t sure. He’s stunned into silence and jumps up to catch the bus, because it’s already here and maybe he’ll sit next to Akaashi and get to see that pretty smile again.

By the end of the ride, Akaashi hasn’t smiled again nor has he attempted to compliment Bokuto again. Bokuto is disappointed, but keeps it a secret under laughs and smiles as he attempts to converse with Akaashi again. It’s a successful attempt, and they chat until Akaashi is standing, hands in his pockets, ready to leave the bus.

“Goodbye, Bokuto-san.” As Akaashi dips down and begins to walk away, Bokuto jumps up, hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him until his knuckles are white.

“Akaashi!” he yells, startling the driver, maybe Akaashi himself, who turns to face Bokuto one last time. “I hope I see you again!” Bokuto shouts, nerves rattling his brain, his bones.

Akaashi stands still before faintly, ever so slightly, smiling, before turning and heading off the bus. Bokuto’s heart is pounding in his chest, though he’s sure it’s heavier than before and a heart attack might be in store for him. He’s still standing when the bus takes off again, but his feet are glued to the floor and his legs are leaden. His stop is soon, and, with stiff steps and sweat at the base of neck despite the cool air, he grins, teeth biting into his lower lip at the prospect of meeting Akaashi again.

 

* * *

 

 

Kuroo passes him a drink and Bokuto grabs it, laughing, and downs a swallow easily, eyes crinkling in delight. He doesn’t remember what’s funny, but he keeps laughing, the sound resonating deep in his chest, bellowing out and into the room they’re in where their friends are gathered. Kuroo’s birthday is this weekend and they’ve thrown together some sort of party where drinks are in abundance, and the bar had been reserved for the night.

They’re in a circle, chatting, yelling, drinking – it reeks, Kuroo is hanging on his shoulder, sloshing a drink next to his ear, laughing, but Bokuto is having the time of his life, swallowing down his own beer that reminds him of piss. It gets him drunk though, and that’s enough for him.

Music is suddenly booming, pulsing deep in his ears, and Bokuto is backing up from the crowd, laughing still, tilting his drink up to his lips. The masses move towards the middle of the room where a makeshift dance floor is made and Bokuto watches, amused, as Kuroo is pulled in the middle as everyone sings happy birthday to him.

He tilts his head back, getting the last drop before dropping the glass to the counter of the bar with a thud that falls silent against the bass of the music. He’s ready to order another one, lips pulled back into a grin, eyes weighed down with the effects of alcohol in his system, when he hears a voice, quiet, yet it sends a shiver down his spine and to the tips of his toes.

“Blood punch, please.” Bokuto turns so fast the room is spinning but standing still in the midst of a whirlwind is Akaashi, hands folded against the bar, talking to the bartender.

“’Kaashi?” Bokuto slurs, eyebrows furrowing. Akaashi glances his way.

“Hello again, Bokuto-san.” Bokuto is still, face slack before it picks back up again, a wide grin pulling his lips up. He leans against the bar, arms up in the air.

“ _Akaashi_!” he yells, slamming a hand back down to the marble top. “Long time no see!”

“It’s been a few weeks, Bokuto-san.” Bokuto thinks it’s been _too_ long, but he doesn’t voice that, and instead sits in the stool next to Akaashi, elbow resting against the bar top where he places his chin in his palm, grinning goofily at the tattoo artist next to him.

“Who would’a thought you’d be here, hmm?” Bokuto says, watching as Akaashi takes a drink of _whatever_ that is, red in color with chunks swimming in the bottom of the glass. It’s pretty, like Akaashi, and Bokuto grins wider, if possible. Akaashi hums quietly.

“Kuroo-san mentioned it when we met to talk over his healing process.”

“Ohoho?” Bokuto leans in close to the tattoo artist, quirking a brow in question. “Did he ask you out?” Akaashi sips his drink.

“No, he simply mentioned the name and date.” Bokuto leans back, satisfied.

“Good!” It’s out before he realizes it and Bokuto’s face lights up before stammering out, “Because he’s – he’s _sly_ , you know? Sneaky!” He’s tripping over his words, trying to justify himself, though Akaashi doesn’t seem to mind nor be interested. Bokuto comes to a stop, his stuttering slowing down as he stares at Akaashi, or, more specifically, his arms. Previous times they’d met, Akaashi had had long sleeves on or a jacket. This time, however, he was dressed more casual, the nonetheless in dark colors.

The burgundy top, however, was short sleeved and Bokuto was graced with the pleasure of seeing that pretty, almost blue skin, but nothing more.

“Hey, hey, hey, for someone who does tattoos, you sure don’t look like you like ‘em,” Bokuto slurs, eyes narrowing at the Akaashi’s bare skin. Akaashi traces the rim of his glass with a finger.

“What makes you say that?” Bokuto gestures to Akaashi’s arms, lithe and skinny.

“Doesn’t look like you have them.” Akaashi lifts one shoulder in a shrug, gaze turning to Bokuto, who clams up and grabs the edges of his seat tightly. “Er, do you have them?” Akaashi is still, only for a moment, before his lips are tilting upwards and his eyes are narrowing. Bokuto feels as though he’s prey under such a look, feels sweat gather at the back of his neck.

“Would you like to see?” Bokuto’s throat goes dry and he chokes out a nervous, awkward laugh, before Akaashi is finishing the last of his drink and is licking the rim clean of the pretty red liquid. Bokuto watches, transfixed on Akaashi’s mouth, wondering if that were, again, Akaashi’s subtle way of flirting or not. “Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto is near vibrating in his seat, fingers gripping the edges still, knuckles white, leg bouncing up at a wild pace. He wonders if the alcohol is making him see things, but he never noticed Akaashi’s eyelashes being so long, or how the bridge of his nose is dusted with the faintest signs of freckles. He feels hot all over, like it’s a sauna instead of a bar.

“I-“ He nods. He’s nodding so quick his head may fly off. Akaashi’s expression doesn’t change as the empty glass is set down once more. Akaashi is on his feet too fast, thin fingers wrapping around his wrist with such gentleness Bokuto had never felt before. He’s being led away from the bar, away from Kuroo – wherever he is – and to the back of the building, near the bathrooms. Akaashi is leading the way and Bokuto notices how his dark hair curls more at the base of his neck. He wants to breathe it in until there’s nothing left.

Bokuto might be having a heart attack as Akaashi pushes open the men’s room with his free hand, pulling Bokuto in by the wrist with a loose grip. Bokuto, drunk from his toes to the tips of his hair, stumbles in, opting to not look in the mirror where he knows he’ll find himself looking a mess. Instead, he focuses on how Akaashi walks towards him, slow, as if stalking him, before reaching down at the base of his shirt, and tugging upwards.

Bokuto gulps, eyes wide, body shaking, fingers trembling – _oh my god_ , he thinks, _I am going to die._

Akaashi does not tease; the shirt is taken off with ease. Arms stretched above his head, Bokuto sees the flex of that beautiful pale skin against his ribs, against his hipbones. Akaashi relaxes his arms at his sides, shirt balled up in one hand, the other lax. Bokuto stares openly, mouth cotton dry, eyes wide.

Akaashi is _beautiful_ , skin white where black ink hasn’t covered it. There’s ink tracing his upper chest, a burst of roses across his collar bone, a bird of some sort – Bokuto can’t tell what kind when there’s so much to look at and when there’s too much alcohol in his system – in the middle, wings outstretched, feathers everywhere – it’s gorgeous.

He must have said so out loud because Akaashi smiles, faint once more, before turning around. Bokuto alwaysvknew blue was a good color for Akaashi – the watercolor painting-like ink against his shoulder blades and dripping down like wet paint against his back proved that. There, in the middle of the sky that was his back, were constellations. Black on blue, it was, again, just _Akaashi_. It was _so him_.

Akaashi turns back around and Bokuto feels like his feet are stuck to the floor with some kind of super glue.

“Do you like them?”

“You’re beautiful, Akaashi.” Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it wasn’t. Bokuto isn’t sure, but it’s out, and he won’t try and cover it up this time. Akaashi steps closer and Bokuto backs up until the cool tile of the wall is against his back and he has nowhere to run as Akaashi stands before him, close. Bokuto’s fingers twitch at his sides and Akaashi grabs his wrist once more.

“You can touch them, Bokuto-san.” His hand is lead to Akaashi’s chest, right in the center, where the bird is outstretched. His fingers are shaking, Akaashi must have realized this, but Bokuto can’t stop them and nothing is said about it, even as he shakily runs his fingertips against the inked skin. It feels warm, though there’s no indication that Akaashi’s skin is different than his. It’s smooth, even over the black lines that stain him.

He sucks in a hot breath, Akaashi’s hand falls, and Bokuto trails his hand down lower, body hunching to get a better look. Down his ribs, towards his hip, over the ball of metal stuck in his hipbone, Bokuto touches with care, as if Akaashi is breakable, fragile. The other hip, he notices, sports the same metal ball. He touches one, gently with his thumb. It’s cool against his skin and it makes bumps appear against his arms and back.

Boktuo hiccups, Akaashi leans forward, pressing the metal into Bokuto finger more firmly.

“You aren’t going to hurt me, Bokuto-san.” His lips press together, and he glances up, catching Akaashi’s eyelashes flutter against pale cheeks.

He’s stunned into silence – perhaps for the first time in his life – and he has no reason to speak. He stands straight once more, though his hand is still on Akaashi’s hip, rolling the metal against his thumb. Bokuto is dizzy, his other hand braced against the tile behind him. Akaashi doesn’t notice or mention it, though, and Bokuto thinks it might be in his head.

Akaashi is leaning towards him, his own hands fisting the burgundy shirt. They’re already close together and Bokuto thinks he will die if they get closer, but they do, with Akaashi’s eyes fluttering shut and Bokuto’s opening wide. He’s nervous, so nervous he’s scared he’s about to be sick as their cheeks brush, as dark lashes tickle his nose.

Bokuto was sure this is what it felt like to have a heart attack.

Heart pounding, lips trembling, air hot and sticky, lungs on fire, dizzy with his own drunkenness; they kissed. Gentle, a simple press of lips against lips. Bokuto felt like his lips were suddenly too big, not his own, like they were some foreign object he suddenly had little to no control over. Akaashi was still whereas Bokuto was shaking out of his skin. Easily, they parted, then came back together, slow, lips overlapping with a quiet gentleness, as though Kuroo was not partying with their friends only a room over.

Bokuto must have learned how to close his eyes at some point because when Akaashi pulls away, he opens them, momentarily stunned by the bathroom light as it knocks a headache into place. His hand on Akaashi’s hip is has stilled, firmed, and feels more real than it did before.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto whispers. He says nothing more, but allows Akaashi to slip his shirt back on before pressing forward to push his lips against the other males once more; quick, easy, as though he’s never kissed before and all his experience has gone down one of the toilets off to the side. Akaashi doesn’t seem to mind, however, accepting the gesture with one of his own.

They leave the bathroom without another word, head back to the bar, and Bokuto doesn’t get another drink; just lays his head down against the cold marble surface, watching Akaashi settle into his seat with the faintest of flushes against his cheeks.

 

* * *

 

 

The day following Kuroo’s birthday was the day Bokuto realized he _needed_ to stop drinking. On the couch, slouched like a sick patient in the hospital, he covered his head with a blanket, loudly whining to Kuroo about his headache.

“Bro, my _head_ – gonna ‘splode, bro,” Bokuto says. “Shouldn’t have drank but it was your birthday, what was I supposed to _do_?” Kuroo hums beside him, sipping on a Sprite, trying to calm his own headache.

“You shouldn’t have drank while on your meds,” Kuroo says. “You know it makes everything worse the day after.” Bokuto agrees, but doesn’t say so. Had he not taken his medication, he might have freaked out in the bathroom with Akaashi.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto suddenly sits up, flinging the blanket off the couch in a flurry of limbs. “Why’d you invite Akaashi?” Bokuto points a finger at his friend accusingly. “Tryin’ to start something here?” Kuroo glances his way, lips curling.

“Oho? Did you meet last night?” Bokuto continues to point. “I thought you’d appreciate seeing him, bro.” Bokuto did, that much was sure, but he didn’t need his scheming monster of a best friend knowing that.

“What makes you say that, huh?” Kuroo gives him a look before laughing into his drink. “Hey!”

“You thought he was hot, yeah? I remember the way you were acting like a complete idiot around him a while ago. Remember? The whole “tattoo is death” thing?” Bokuto flushes, grabbing the blanket and curling into the couch.

“No idea what you mean – none.” Kuroo laughs.

“Thought I’d mention it to him. He seemed interested when I told him you’d be there.” Bokuto sits up straight at that, eyes wide. He points again.

“What do you mean? What did you _say to him?_ ” Kuroo doesn’t respond with much, but rather with a shrug and a tilt of his glass against smirking lips.

“Nothing much. Just that you’d be there if he were interested.” It’s silent for a minute while Bokuto lets that sink in. “Seems that he was, right?” Kuroo is grinning as he gets up to go to the only bedroom in the apartment, winking as he does so. Bokuto groans loudly, cheeks hot, as he flops against the couch.

Worst best friend ever.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s at work the next time he hears from Akaashi. It’s been a week or so since the bar incident and Bokuto had been starting to wonder if maybe he had been the only one interested after all. He’s playing with the kids, one in his arms, one with their legs wrapped around his neck as he zooms around the playroom pretending to take flight, when his phone buzzes in his pocket, once, twice, then thrice, before Bokuto realizes it’s a phone call.

The kids are set down, ushered to go play while he does “grown up things”, and that he’ll be back before they know it. Bokuto takes his phone out, steps outside a moment, and answers, though the number is unknown.

“Hello hello?” Bokuto shouts into the receiver, eyes straining in the sunlight.

“Bokuto-san?” Bokuto perks up, pressing the phone tight against his ear.

“Akaashi?” he responds, getting a hum in conformation. He could have cheered, could have done cartwheels down the street. Instead, he bounces in place, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, hey, hey! What’s up?”

“Are you free?” Bokuto kicks a rock on the ground, eyes trained on the ground, a smile creeping up from corner to corner of his mouth. The rock goes flying and Bokuto thinks that he, too, could fly at this moment.

“I’m working right now, but I get off in half an hour,” he answers. Teeth dig deep into his bottom lip, hopeful. Bokuto jumps, once, twice, listening to Akaashi breathe for a moment before,

“Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

Bokuto throws his hands in the air, phone and all, _hooting_ in excitement. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that Akaashi – as well as the other fully functioning adults across the street – can hear him, but he’s too happy to care. He’s near vibrating, cheeks puffed out from the force of his grin; Bokuto wouldn’t mind if the whole world heard him.

He puts the phone back to his ear, and, calmly, though not without the voice of somebody who’s about to go out with the most beautiful of men, says,

“Where should we meet?”

 

* * *

 

 

They meet on a popular street after Bokuto’s shift had ended at the daycare. Akaashi had mentioned a casual sitting so Bokuto had opted to go straight to the restaurant rather than bother Kuroo for a ride to and back.

He hopes he doesn’t smell like baby formula.

Akaashi is easy to pick out, standing near the center fountain with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, head turned to the side. Bokuto races, then, running through the night crowd, suddenly excited all over again at the thought of _going out_ with Akaashi. He stops, just in front of him, grinning from ear to ear, breathing through his nose that sends little puffs of white into the cool air.

“Akaashi!” Said male looks up, then, and Bokuto can see the tilt of his lips from over the top of his scarf. “I hope you didn’t wait long!”

“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi leads the way, Bokuto trailing beside him, close. “It wasn’t long.” Bokuto is happy to hear that, casually picking up conversation with ease as Akaashi falls silent.

The trip to the restaurant was only a short walk away from the fountain in the plaza-like area they met at and Bokuto was eternally grateful for as soon as the blinking _open!_ sign came into sight, his stomach was doing flips and turns.

He hoped that maybe Akaashi had bad hearing and didn’t notice it growling like a savage.

A Yakiniku type place, it seemed to be, and Bokuto couldn’t have been happier. The smell of grilled meats made him wrap his arms long around his middle, mouth watering, in anticipation.

“Smells good,” he says, as they wait to be seated. Akaashi hums in agreement, and it’s much too long before they’re seated, grill between them, and Bokuto is placing beef on the grill by the pound. He’s too busy keep drool off his chin to talk, but, finally, it seems that Akaashi will fill in the silence this time.

“Where is it you work?” he asks, placing his own stack of meat next to Bokuto’s. Bokuto looks up at him, smile breaking across his face.

“A daycare! I work with kids!” Bokuto places his hands on his hips, chest out, chin up, proud of his occupation. Akaashi glances at him for a moment.

“That’s suiting,” he says with a wave of his chopsticks. “You both have a lot of energy.”

“Ah – hey, hey, hey! That’s not a bad thing!” Bokuto says, leaning closer to the table. “The kids love me, you know!” Akaashi’s lips quirk up.

“I never said it was bad.” He flips over the meat and Bokuto takes that as a sign that he should too before it burns or cooks unevenly.

“I make mothers everywhere proud! I always leave their kids ready for bed!” And himself, as running around for six hours of the day with a number of children will wear one out. But he leaves that part to himself, smiling when Akaashi does.

“I’m sure they’re very glad to have you watch their children, Bokuto-san.” Bokuto feels pride swell in his chest, cheeks hot from the compliment.

They eat, talking in between mouthfuls, and Bokuto learns more than he thought he would about his dinner companion: Akaashi is younger than him by a year, he’s been tattooing since he was out of high school, he can eat just as much if not as more as Bokuto – which makes Bokuto think of it as something as a competition to eat more, just to prove that a skinny guy like a Akaashi wouldn’t outdo him.

It comes time to pay and Bokuto offers, but Akaashi denies, completely ignoring him and paying before Bokuto has the chance to find his wallet. It leaves Bokuto pouting but Akaashi pays it no mind as they exit back out onto the street where the cool air hits their cheeks that had been warm from the grill. Bokuto pulls his jacket tighter across his chest, zipping it up to his chin, wishing that he too had a scarf to keep his neck warm.

They’re at the fountain again, standing behind it where there are less people passing, near the entrance to an alleyway for a nearby business. They’re facing each other, breath coming out in white clouds between their faces.

“Hey, hey – thanks for dinner, Akaashi!” Bokuto is all smiles again, honest and genuine. “Though I would have liked to pay for it,” he says with a rub to the back of his head.

“Perhaps next time,” Akaashi says, and Bokuto lights up, blinking thrice as if it would make Akaashi repeat his words. _Next time_. Bokuto is shoving his chin into the collar of his jacket, ears warm. They’re silent for a minute.

“I guess I should call Kuroo and get a ride, huh? But you go on and get home, it’s cold!” Bokuto shouts, nodding. “I don’t mind waiting!” Akaashi seems to consider this, even takes a step backwards before saying,

“I could take you.” Bokuto’s heart must have stopped and the angels must have started singing – he puts his hands up, declining to make Akaashi spend more time on him. “I don’t mind, Bokuto-san.”

“Er, if you really don’t – Thank you!” Akaashi leads the way to a nearby parking lot and Bokuto tries see if there’s a bike in the vicinity. “Hey, Akaashi, did you get your bike fixed?” He doesn’t see one and wonders if he drove instead.

Akaashi doesn’t answer and instead leads him to the back of the lot where a motorcycle sits, black, sleek, shiny in the lamppost light above. Bokuto pales, animatedly looking between Akaashi and the motorcycle in hopes that his company is joking.

When Akaashi hands him a helmet, he knows he’s not.

“ _Woah_ – I – I never took you for that type of guy, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, holding the helmet in his hands and the seat of the Bike is flipped up to reveal a compartment where another helmet is stashed away.

“What type do you think I am, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi puts the helmet on, snapping it under his chin, but not before casting a curious smile towards the elder.

“Er – the safe type?” Bokuto clams up, watching as Akaashi stretches a leg over the side of the motorcycle, leaving just enough room for Bokuto to climb on behind him.

“I think you’ve misjudged me, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, looking at him from behind the black plastic that covers his eyes. “I promise to be _safe_.” There’s a hint of play in his voice but Bokuto can only stare at the death trap that is Akaashi’s bike and hope he makes it home in one piece. He climbs on, wobbly and scared, afraid he’s too big, or that it might tip over, or that Akaashi is a wild driver and wants to kill him tonight for eating so much or – “Bokuto-san, please hold on.”

He takes off at what feels like lightning speed and Bokuto screeches like a wild bird, arms wrapping tightly around Akaashi’s middle.

“ _Oh my god,_ Akaashi _!”_ Bokuto shouts, terrified, arms wound so tight around Akaashi Bokuto is momentarily scared he’ll snap in half. “Don’t hit that light pole!” Bokuto hopes Akaashi knows which one he’s talking about because his hands are not budging until the ride is over. “ _Watch out for that tree, Akaashi_!”

Akaashi yells something at him but Bokuto is too busy screaming at the other male to _not_ hit things and to _please don’t let me die!_ They come to a stop sign and Akaashi lets the bike sit for a moment, taking the time to turn his head to face Bokuto.

“Bouto-san, you trusted me with Kuroo-san, remember?” Bokuto, shaking, remembers back to when Kuroo was getting his tattoo. He supposed that, _yes_ , he did entrust his friend with the artist. And Kuroo had been happy with the results, and by some miracle, neither of them died at the hands of a tattoo artist. Bokuto nods stiffly. “You can trust me again, this time with you.”

Akaashi drives again, and Bokuto shuts his eyes tight, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, trying to put his faith in Akaashi. With his closed, though, it’s a lot less scary. The air is like a cold whip around the two of them, but Bokuto thinks that Akaashi is taking most of the wind for him. Bokuto realizes that, with a few deep breaths, that it isn’t so bad.

He’s hugging Akaashi, after all. Dying like this might not be _so_ bad.

He’s yelling out directions, voice wavering, refusing to remove his hands from Akaashi’s waist until they’ve reached his and Kuroo’s apartment. When they finally enter the parking lot, Akaashi sits still, feet balanced on either side of the bike, waiting for Bokuto to gather himself.

It takes a minute, Bokuto having no feeling in his legs or arms, but he manages, barely, to get himself on two feet – though his legs are shaking considerably and they feel like pudding underneath his weight and he wonders if he’ll collapse before he reaches the front door.

“Was it too bad?” Akaashi asks, removing his helmet. Bokuto does the same, holding it tightly between his hands. He nods with vigor.

“Yes! It was awful!” Then Bokuto looks to his feet, at his shaking hands, at Akaashi’s boots. “But – I mean, I would do it again. If it were with you. But only you, Akaashi!” he shouts, head ducking. His ears feel hot despite the wind nipping at them.

Akaashi is quiet before he reaches, fingers tracing the edge of Bokuto’s helmet, then finally, Bokuto’s fingers, which are as cold as his. Their fingers touch, Bokuto takes flight into another dimension, and Akaashi is pulling him down by his jacket sleeve until their lips meet, Bokuto’s chapped and dry ones against Akaashi’s that feel like ice cubes against his mouth.

When Bokuto watches Akaashi drive away, the red taillights whizzing away like a memory, Bokuto realizes he’s still clutching the helmet as if it were a sign he’d need it again soon.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Dude_ , you gave him _my number_?” Bokuto is lying in bed, hair disheveled in a half up, half down _mess_ , blanket resting near his feet. “I don’t know if I should be thankful or not, really.”

“You had a good time, right?”

“Well, _yeah_ –“

“Then thank me by getting out of here. The bed is mine tonight,” Kuroo says, slinking onto the foot of the bed like some oversized cat. Bokuto huffs, kicking the blanket over his friend as he exits the only bedroom in their apartment and shuts the door behind him.

“You’re the best worst best friend!” he shouts at the door, to which Kuroo responds with,

“Love you too, man.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bokuto isn’t sure what defines “dating”, but he’s pretty sure and Akaashi are doing just that.

Or, they must be getting close.

Thanks to Kuroo, Bokuto can now effectively text Akaashi whenever he wants. They chat each night, though it’s mostly Bokuto send Akaashi pictures of Kuroo when he’s making a ridiculous face or of funny bird pictures that are making equally ridiculous faces. Bokuto doesn’t always hear back from him, but he doesn’t mind, knowing that that’s just Akaashi.

He wouldn’t change it.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s around midnight a few nights after their outing that the buzz of his phone against the coffee table awakens Bokuto. He jumps, startled, squinting into the darkness of the living room to grab at his phone.

“Hey, hey?” he mumbles, the back of his hand coming up to wipe away excess drool from his chin.

“Bokuto-san.” It’s Akaashi but that isn’t what has Bokuto’s skin crawling up the back of his spine. “Bokuto-san.” Akaashi’s voice – something is off and it has Bokuto sitting up straight, back against the couch, wide awake.

“Ah – Akaashi? What’s-“

“Bokuto-san, I-“ He’s interrupted , Akaashi hiccupping into the phone quietly. His voice is low, raspy, and Bokuto hopes that this isn’t what he thinks it is.

(Or hopes that it is.)

“Akaashi, where are you?” Bokuto asks, carefully, quietly, as to not wake up Kuroo who’s bedroom door is open.

“Home,” is the immediate response and Bokuto thinks he’s going to die. “I am home.”

“Hey, are you drunk, Akaashi?” Bokuto asks, glancing towards Kuroo’s room. “Uh, you should probably get some sleep, you know!”

 “Bokuto-san, talk to me.” His face lights up, fingers threading through his hair tightly as his stomach twists in nervousness.

“Er – what about?” Akaashi hiccups again on the other end, quiet, almost like it didn’t happen. Bokuto listens to him breathe for a moment.

“About you. Talk about yourself, Bokuto-san.” Bokuto shifts, listen to rustling on Akaashi’s side, ears warm. “Please.” Bokuto is stunned, almost, not sure what to say, because _really_.

He might faint, at this point.

“Okay, uh – hold on, okay?” He gets up, tip toes to Kuroo’s door, peeking in but seeing no signs of Kuroo being awake. Carefully, he shuts the door, hand coming off the handle only when the little _click_ is heard. “Akaashi, what should I say?”

He settles back against the couch, his neck against the armrest. He hears Akaashi shift, hears him breathe into the receiver.

“What did you do today, Bokuto-san?”

“I, ah, sent you another picture today. This morning, remember? With the two cats near the garbage cans?” Akaashi hums, low, in his throat, and Bokuto thinks he’s going to explode, then and there. “I – I showered this morning and I –“

Akaashi _moans_ into the phone, Bokuto sees stars.

“Warm or cold?” Bokuto is silent before registering what he meant.

“Warm, because I didn’t work out today,” he responds, fingers playing with the drawstrings of his sweats.

“You work out.” It’s a statement, but even Bokuto can hear what Akaashi means when he says it in such a breathless voice.

He decides to play along, this time.

“I – yeah, in the mornings. I run, you know. Four times a week.” Akaashi sucks in air. “It’s nice in the summer, when the weather is hot. I sweat more, but the shower is always cold after and it’s – it’s nice,” Bokuto manages, ears aflame, cheeks bursting in colors of rose, hand slipping to finger the skin under his sweats.

“What else? Do you only run?” Akaashi asks, voice low, breathing uneven.

“No,” he answers weakly, as if the tables were turned and it was him who was on the receiving end rather than Akaashi. “Volleyball on the weekends, though not when it’s this cold and – ah, remember to stretch before doing exercise!” he half shouts into the phone, forgetting Kuroo, forgetting the time, because Akaashi is _panting_ into the phone, and Bokuto is slipping his hand in further, fingertips grazing his cock.

“Tell me how to properly stretch, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi whispers and it leaves Bokuto breathless, his hand gripping himself tight, palm warm and tacky with sweat.

“Akaashi, can you bend over,” he says, breath hitching, “and touch your toes?” Akaashi hums in the positive, and Bokuto chokes his own noises out against the phone. “ _Ah_ , always start with your legs, work up, you know? Flexing is – is good, calves, _thighs_ –“ He’s freely rambling into the phone about exercise, but Akaashi doesn’t seem to mind because Bokuto can hear a definite _shlick_ on the other end and it has him throwing his head back, mouth open.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi breathes. “ _Bokuto-san_.” Bokuto bites the inside of his cheek, shifting the phone between his cheek and shoulder to pull his sweats down enough to free himself from his restraints. His hand curves, twists against the head of his penis, and he moans openly, listening to Akaashi’s breathing get faster, rougher. “Keep talking.”

“I wanna – Akaashi, _I wanna touch you_ ,” Bokuto bites out, fisting his cock with a tight hand. “Need you – wanna hear you, too.” Bokuto is loud, but Kuroo has long since left his mind. Clouding it like a thick fog, his mind is shrouded with the thoughts of Akaashi, with the image of Akaashi touching himself because Bokuto can _hear it_ , he can almost –

“ _Bokuto-“_ and Bokuto holds his breath in to hear better, to hope to _see_ better, as Akaashi seemingly goes still, goes quiet before humming, deep and raspy. Bokuto can picture it – Akaashi’s lips, wet parted, lashes fluttering against porcelain cheeks, his hands on Bokuto, Bokuto’s hands on him, _them together –_

“Shit, shit, _Akaashi_ , I’m…” Bokuto is panting, rough, hard into the phone. His hand is slick, precum is dribbling down his shaft, and all he wants to do is _feel_.

“Bokuto-san, don’t hold back,” he hears, quiet, as if Akaashi is on the brink of sleep. “I want to see you come.” And he does, back arching, hips twitching, a whine in the back of his throat – he sees stars, lights, and in the center, he sees Akaashi; that pretty face and thin fingers, dark hair and eyes like midnight.

 

* * *

 

 

They have plans again, but Akaashi hasn’t told him where yet. Bokuto is outside, at work, with his arms held out and a kid hanging by each limb. He’s careful, letting them dangle where their feet are almost on the ground. The kids are taking turns to see who can hang on the longest when an engine revs up and Bokuto sees Akaashi waiting in the parking lot directly across from the outside play area.

The kids drop from his arm and run to the gate, little fingers grasping at the bars as they stare in awe at the mysterious stranger dressed in black. Bokuto grins, pride swelling deep in his chest as the kids seem to like Akaashi already. They’re yelling at him to come inside, and as he slides his helmet off and casts a weary glance towards Bokuto, he does.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto unlocks the gate, letting Akaashi slip inside as children circle them, jumping up and down in excitement. Bokuto pats Akaashi on the back in greeting. “Gimme just a second to change, okay?” Before Akaashi can answer, though, Bokuto is gone, the apron he was wearing being untied.

Bokuto hangs said cloth up near the front of the daycare, telling his shift replacement that he’s taking his early leave. With a quick check of his jacket to make sure he doesn’t smell too strongly of baby formula or oatmeal, Bokuto heads back into the play area.

The sight that greets him has Bokuto grinning from ear to ear and a flustered Akaashi is holding a girl in his arms, awkwardly, with the expression of someone who has never held a child before. He catches Bokuto’s eye, a silent plead, and Bokuto laughs loud and free.

He sweeps in, standing in front of Akaashi before taking the girl from his arms, who is laughing and grasping at his hair. He easily sits her atop his shoulders, keeping his hands on her ankles to help keep her balanced.

She’s giggling into his gelled hair, hands going over his eyes. Bokuto is laughing, too, taking her down a moment later to go run and play. Akaashi looks bewildered, almost, looking back and forth between Bokuto and the masses of children who are still at their feet.

“They’re awfully cute, huh?” he says with a grin that reaches his eyes. Akaashi’s lips quirk into a smile.

“You bring out the best in them, Bokuto-san,” he replies. Bokuto’s ears flush at the tips and he rubs the back of his head before telling the kids goodbye and leading Akaashi out of the play area. Bokuto jumps, suddenly, nearly starting Akaashi, then runs to the front of the daycare, yanks the door open, and then comes back out with a helmet in hand, the same from their first outing together.

“Didn’t wanna leave without it,” he says, snapping it on as Akaashi does the same. They settle on the bike, and Bokuto is waving goodbye to the kids at the gate when he asks, “Do I get to know where we’re going, yet?”

“No.” Akaashi gives him no warning, the motorcycle coming to life in a quick rev. Bokuto squawks, grabs Akaashi around the middle, and they’re off before Bokuto can hear the kids laughing.

 It isn’t long before Akaashi is pulling into a parking lot and Bokuto is unraveling his fingers from the cloth of Akaashi’s shirt and staring up at the building before them with a rounded top. He reads “ _Planetarium_ ” branded around the curved roof, though the meaning of the word leaves him wondering as to where exactly Akaashi had taken him.

He wonders if he should have paid more attention in high school.

The helmets are put away and Akaashi is grabbing his hand, leading him to and through the pretty glass doors at the front of the building. Bokuto is floating, flying, not noticing that Akaashi is, again, paying for him. Akaashi’s hand is slender, his veins near glowing, a pretty blue against his skin, Bokuto notices, and he’s thinking about tracing them with his fingers, maybe his tongue, when he’s led into a room where the lights are off.

Bokuto wonders if this is another bar bathroom incident waiting to happen.

However, it’s when he’s watching Akaashi sit in what looks like a movie theater seat that Bokuto realizes that he is, essentially, in some kind of theater. A quick look around the room  – with what little light there is - tells him that the screen, however, isn’t just in front of him; it’s _around_ them. Bokuto can see some kind of film over the walls, something that, even in the dark, looks _fake_.

“Hey, hey,” Bokuto murmurs, taking a seat beside Akaashi, leaning over the armrest between them. “You didn’t tell me we were going to watch a movie!” Bokuto can’t make out the curve of Akaashi’s lips.

“Bokuto-san, watch.” Akaashi is leaning back and Bokuto looks past him to see the screen light up, barely, with little flashes and twinkles of white light. Bokuto is turning which every way to see them flash before the in another spot, then, with Akaashi’s hand guiding him back, he’s leaning in his seat to watch them above.

“Stars –“ Bokuto watches, paint strokes of blues and purples bleeding into the screen. Planets wiz by, they’re suddenly _in_ space, constellations are glowing in his eyes, and Bokuto is near breathless because it’s beautiful and he’s never seen anything like it. He reaches out, eyes trained on the screen, and grips Akaashi’s hand tight. “Akaashi look!”

He receives no response, but his hand is being held just as tight and he takes that as a sign that, _yes_ , there are stars and _yes,_ he is probably looking.

There’s a voice overhead, deep, engulfing Bokuto with knowledge he’s trying to retain while still gawking at the millions of stars passing his vision. It’s _beautiful_ , and Bokuto is stiff in his seat, tense with fascination, listening and watching with such focus that he doesn’t hear Akaashi lean over, closer, and doesn’t feel their shoulders touch.

Bokuto is flying, though it’s fleeting, because the lights are coming back on, the voice is gone, and the stars have all disappeared. His excitement, however, is ever present.

“Akaashi, did you _see that_! The sky was like – _whoosh_ – and there were stars all over! Did you hear him, Akaashi? You can see Taurus during the winter from Tokyo! That means _tonight_ , Akaashi!” Akaashi is holding his hand still, his lips are upturned, and Bokuto is gliding out the room, shouting.

Bokuto calls Akaashi later that night to see if he too is watching the sky, the same moon.

 

* * *

 

 

Akaashi has his hands pressed flat against Bokuto’s bicep, tracing lines that Bokuto can’t see with his fingers every so often. He hasn’t asked yet, but he’s curious as to what Akaashi is drawing and why on him. His muscles twitch when Akaashi trails too close to his underarm and he hopes that Akaashi doesn’t notice, but he does – _of course he does_ – and suddenly Bokuto is tossing and turning in the bed, arms and legs flailing under the blankets. He’s laughing, he’s near squawking – “Akaashi, _please_ – _please stop!_ ” – and when lithe hands have left his underarms, they’re pinning his hands above his head where messy hair is sprawled up on the black of Akaashi’s pillow.

His chest is heaving, his sides are tingling, yet Bokuto is near still when Akaashi speaks.

“Let me tattoo you.”

“Er –“ Bokuto grins, lopsided, unsure. “What?” Akaashi is holding his wrists together tight from his position on top of Bokuto, rendering him unable to move. Akaashi has no response and Bokuto might be sweating. “Why’d you wanna do that?”

Akaashi is looking down at him and Bokuto is still grinning, though it’s far from a happy gesture. His eyes lower, down to Akaashi’s chest where he’s greeted with the sight of black against white, ink dredged into skin.

“I think it would compliment you well,” Akaashi finally murmurs, the pads of his fingers digging gently into the vein on the underside of one of Bokuto’s wrists. His hips rock gently, eyes downward where tan skin is pulled tight over years worth of built muscle.

 Bokuto’s breath hitches.

“Uh –“ He stumbles over his words, aroused, confused.

“It can be small.” Bokuto’s hands twitch under Akaashi’s hold, watching his chest flex with each grind of his hips. Bokuto is sweating; sure he’s going to die when Akaashi continues. “Something against your bicep, maybe. I have a few ideas, I think about it sometimes, tattooing you.”

Bokuto jerks his hips up, face heating up, chest flushing. His thighs are warm from Akaashi’s body.

“I – What have you come up with?” He’s interested, a little, though terrified to the core of actually having a needle pressed into his skin repeatedly. Bokuto is turned on, though, and willing to play along because when Akaashi looks back up to his face, Bokuto feels like he’s going to burst into flames and he likes it.

“Come with me to the shop tomorrow, I’ll show you.” Bokuto rips his hands from Akaashi’s hold – though it wasn’t tight to begin with – and grips pale hips between his hands. His thumbs massage the pretty little silver balls decorating jutting hipbones and Bokuto thinks he feels his soul leaving his body when Akaashi tips his head back, humming quietly.

“I dunno, I –“

“You don’t have to make a decision tomorrow, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto takes the initiative to end the conversation, pushing Akaashi back, lips attached to a pale collarbone in fever.

 

* * *

 

 

“Akaashi, when I die, please take my things before Kuroo tries to. And promise to feed my goldfish? Kuroo won’t remember and I can’t trust anyone else – but don’t feed him too much, I heard that they can die from over feeding. Do you think that’s true?”

Akaashi doesn’t answer, doesn’t have time to, really, as Bokuto is already off again, asking him to bury him in a nice place when he dies. Bokuto doesn’t seem to mind not getting an answer, though, not really wanting one in the first place, but instead is looking to talk himself into comfort.

However, it doesn’t seem to be working.

He’s not watching as Akaashi snaps rubber gloves on his hands, definitely not watching as he readies the ink, turns on the tattooing gun of doom, and Bokuto is _not_ watching as Akaashi reaches for his wrist.

“You know, Kuroo always said I was dumb enough to die at an early age!” he nearly screams, sweat coating the back of his neck. Akaashi glances up at him, gun in hand.

“We can stop, Bokuto-san, whenever you want.” Bokuto’s lips pull upward into a near comical frown, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. “You don’t have to do it,” Akaashi presses gently.

He might cry, he realizes. Cry and then pass into the afterlife.

He sticks his wrist out farther, eyes shut tight, lips pulled into a firm line now. He wiggles his arm, gesturing for Akaashi to continue.

He’ll be damned that he doesn’t do this first, though, before dying.

Akaashi waits a moment before starting, the gun buzzing to life in his hand before he brings it to Bokuto’s skin. Bokuto _screams_ , but otherwise is still. Akaashi expected that, though, and firmly holds Bokuto’s wrist tight in his hand in case he jerks.

It takes about fifteen minutes top and when Akaashi is done, Bokuto is crying, laughing, and sweating all at once. He’s a mess, Akaashi looks stressed, but it’s done – Bokuto has survived the tattooing needle of doom.

He doesn’t look, though, until Akaashi is finished wiping away the excess ink from his skin with a rag and disposing of his gloves. He peeks down through one eye, at his wrist that red in color from irritation and there, in the center of his wrist, were little dots in a gradient of color. Green, blue, purple – beautifully painted against his skin, color popping against the contrast in colors sat Taurus, just like he had seen in the sky that night.

“Akaashi –“ He’s crying again and Akaashi is smiling, lips quirked as Bokuto sobs, arm out stretched, face flushed. “It – I –“ Bokuto isn’t forming words, but it doesn’t matter. He’s sure Akaashi understands, he always does.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @scratchbokuaka


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